The Boy Is Doomed
by sylc
Summary: Pengolodh of Gondolin complains about his new student, Maeglin, to Ecthelion and Glorfindel.


"That child may well be the death of me," Pengolodh hissed as he entered Ecthelion's winter room. On pulling out a chair at the card table, the scribe dropped into it like a stone and stared wearily between the cards on the table and the clouded expressions of the two elf-lords already sitting there on either side of him.

Golden haired Glorfindel, who was sitting to his right hand, lowered his cards to the table, then cast Pengolodh a searching look. "What did Maeglin do?"

"He did nothing, whatsoever, that I can officially complain about," Pengolodh said grimly, looking at the tall elf. "And yet, everything about him disturbs me."

"As it does all of us," Ecthelion interceded in his gruff voice, his long fingers tightly clutching his cards. "The boy was raised in isolation in Nan Elmoth by a madman who kept his wife forcibly in thrall. If that is not reason for a child to behave strangely, then what is?"

"Perhaps the fact that he is now being raised by the same elf who orphaned him?" Glorfindel suggested quietly. He raised an eyebrow when across from him Ecthelion snorted loudly. "Is there something you wish to add, Ecthelion?"

"Are you suggesting that we did the wrong thing by slaying Eöl?" the Lord of the Fountain challenged.

"Nay, but neither do I believe that we did the right thing in slaying him either. The elf - psychotic though he was - was still the boy's father and one of the very few people that Maeglin knew up until his arrival on our city's doorstep."

"Certainly, it could not have helped that Maeglin was present at the execution," Pengolodh added.

"I agree wholeheartedly," Glorfindel said, glancing sidelong at him. "That was abhorrent; I wish I knew who permitted it - he should be demoted."

"It was I," Ecthelion said sourly, after a momentary pause. "And I let him watch because he wanted to watch."

There was an awkward silence. Across the table, the two elf lords glared at each other, one in accusation, the other in defence.

Then Ecthelion, obviously the one who cared the least about the issue, shrugged and added, "The boy is bound for an ill fate. He was born to Eöl Mornedhel, who is - _was_ - irrefutably insane and homicidal, and to Aredhel Ar-Feiniel, who was rebellious, impulsive, and always lacking in good judgement. The only reason why we are not discussing whether or not we should even bother educating him at all is because - as Morgoth would delight to know - the boy is next in line for the throne. Námo's curse is complete. The boy is doomed, as are we all." He threw down a card - one that featured the element of water - and picked up another from the stack lying face down in the middle of the table.

"I cannot believe you have already given up on the child," Glorfindel said. His face was slightly flushed.

"And I remain stunned by your unshakeable optimism," Ecthelion retorted. "Where is your hand?" he said then, irritably. "Pick up your cards; I want to finish this game today."

Glorfindel glanced between Ecthelion's irritated expression and his own hand of cards, which was still lying face first on the table, then deliberately turned his full attention onto Pengolodh. "What did Maeglin do that disturbed you in today's lesson?" he prompted.

"Well, today's lesson was more of a lengthy assessment," Pengolodh said, looking a bit shamefaced. "It was his first session with me, so I needed to learn his current level of academic skill so as to know what to teach him in future lessons."

Glorfindel nodded. "And? How did he perform?"

"Very well. Arguably, he did excellently. Certainly, far better than I would have expected of a..." Here, the scribe glanced at Ecthelion's sour face, "...dark-elven homicidal hermit's child. It is evident that Eöl valued the passing on of knowledge."

"Perhaps you are crediting the wrong parent," Ecthelion supplied, glancing down at his cards. "Aredhel probably taught the boy everything he knows."

Pengolodh's eyes narrowed. "Including the Black Speech?"

For a few moments, the scholar savoured the flabbergasted look that appeared on the Lord of the Fountain's face.

"You are jesting," Glorfindel asked, looking equally stunned.

"That was only languages," Pengolodh said dryly. "Under the biology section, he not only successfully described the reproductive process for Iluvatar's children as the question asked, but also explained how vampires and orcs and a multitude of other... unnatural creatures produce offspring."

There was another pause.

"What else did he do?" Ecthelion asked presently, frowning at the scribe. Evidently curiosity had finally replaced his impatience to return to the game.

Pengolodh stretched out a hand - palm up - and began counting the incidents on his fingers. "For potions and healing, he wrote down the recipe for a tasteless, colourless poison; for history he argued that without Morgoth, there would be no evil - but no good either; for geography, he wrote about how to enslave trees; for arithmetic, instead of _x_ and _y_ as his variables, he used _elves_ and _orcs_; for art he drew Aredhel disembowled in the middle of her autopsy - a vision which I distinctly hope he obtained from his imagination only," he shot a sharp look at Ecthelion who held out his hands in protest. "Lastly," he said, his voice slightly raised, "for ethics, he argued that Aredhel acted illogically in saving his life, that altruism is a socially constructed disease of Firstborn societies, and that for immortals, there is no reason to not act selfishly all of the time."

There was a long silence.

Then Ecthelion shook his head. "The boy is doomed," he uttered lowly, repeating his earlier words. "And he will drag us all down with him."

Across from him, Glorfindel shrugged and picked up his cards from the table. "Well, the boy _is_ Aredhel's son," he said quietly, as he cast down a card adorned with the snarling face of a balrog, framed in flame. "He could have been deliberately - and very creatively, I might add - winding you up."

"Or not," Ecthelion finished.

"Or not," Glorfindel agreed. He sighed, then shot Pengolodh a peaceful, amiable smile. "Care to join in after this round? Ecthelion keeps on dying by either water or balrog and he is becoming quite impossible, as you can see."

The scribe leaned back in his chair and smiled. "As long as there are no cards featuring young Maeglin's face, I would love to," he said.


End file.
